“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”

L.M Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

Anne Shirley’s Prince Edward Island lies at a lower latitude than Ireland yet its autumns arrive sooner. For us it tends to be early November before autumn colour achieves its peak. But to say “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Novembers” doesn’t sound as inviting.

However, this year many photographers on both sides of the Atlantic expressed a concern that autumn seemed to be particularly late. I confess I was one. My reason was rather selfish but, I hope, forgiveable: we had been invited to spend the final week of October with friends who live on the edge of the New Forest in Dorset. Since reading Children of the New Forest in school (many, many years ago!) it has been a dream of mine to experience it for myself one day. But would autumn be waiting for us when we arrived?

“No”, was the answer. When we arrived, summer green was still in full flow and as we drove around what is a spectacularly beautiful county, I couldn’t help feeling that something was missing. And then, the day before we returned home, the New Forest was ready for us. Almost over night, it seemed, orange and yellow had moved in. Still October, but on the cusp of November, autumn had begun.

Every ancient forest is challenging to photograph. They are wild places, following their own rules which don’t neatly fit into our concepts of artistic order. Add to this the newness of this particular forest to me, as well as its sheer vastness and I was well and truly daunted! I had visions of wandering hour after hour, finding nothing that I could make ‘work’ in a photograph.

That’s precisely what had happened on the first day. We saw ponies, fungi, trees but I struggled to find a composition in the landscape. Thankfully during the week I had come across an article on the New Forest which highlighted in general terms some locations rich in photographic potential.

It is often easier to find compositions at the edge of forests or in more open areas so we headed first to Rockford Common, where after a brief shower we were welcomed by a glorious rainbow. This was encouraging! Next we moved on to Bratley View where the sun again co-operated to provide a splash of light on the beautiful lone pine and on some of the surrounding bracken.

After these early encouragements we decided to go deeper into the forest in an area called Rhinefield, where the Black Water runs. I love the combination of trees and water, especially running water. The image of a tree growing at the edge of water had long since been planted in my mind, from the Hebrew poetry my mother used to quote to me about the blessedness of the person who didn’t walk in step with the wicked, or hang out with those who mock but fed instead on words from above - that person was like a tree planted by streams of water: lots of cool, living water to satisfy the deepest thirst and keep the heat at bay. I spent many long afternoons as a boy climbing trees beside the Folly River, swinging out across the water on a rather doubtful rope and stick combination we all used. No such temptation on this occasion, jut the happiness of finding what I sought.

I hate rushing when photographing the landscape. Sometimes there’s no choice, due either to arriving at the scene after the drama has started - waiting for the light is much better than chasing it - or to the fleeting nature of the moment. Fortunately on this occasion we were under no such pressure. We could stand still, watch, listen, drink in the beauty around us. Sufficient light penetrated the dense canopy to make the colours glow. Yellow, orange and an entire gamut of greens formed a wonderful mosaic of colour. The winding stream and the ancient trees, some leaning at dynamic angles, provided the structure. I could have remained in this one spot for the rest of the day.

Apart from the occasional flap of a wood pigeon’s wings or the snap of a twig indicating the presence of a squirrel or some other small creature, we were enveloped by the special silence of the deep wood. An occasional breath of wind caused movement amongst the leaves, as if the trees themselves were stirring to life and might move or speak at any moment. Then all was quiet again, the noiseless stream at our feet and the air heavy with the intoxicating incense of pine, thick moss and decaying leaves. Overwhelming.

No camera lens is adequate. The human eye sees differently and more. I was drawn to the reflections on the dark, smooth water. They seemed to emphasise the forest’s depth and serve as an invitation to look deeper and go further. At the same time, as I angled my lens slightly downwards, I was conscious of the trees soaring above my head, like the great vaulted ceiling of a natural cathedral, towards the heavens.

Time seems different in the deep forest. Three seasons of the year that is passed were locked into every photograph. And hundreds of years before that. Forests are great preservers of time and history. If only trees could talk… For long moments I looked at the gnarly faces around me, willing them to speak.

This scene stood out for me. Two ancient trees, rotting on their feet but still standing, gather around a fallen friend finally asleep in the bracken’s golden embrace.

For many, autumn has melancholy music, different from the bright green songs of spring. But to be overwhelmed, as I was, doesn’t mean to be sad. I can’t help smiling. I have been given to see 68 autumns and this one is more beautiful than any I can recall. To everything there is a season. The autumn of my life is a time to dance, even with sore muscles and stiff joints. Anne Shirley was right: I’m glad to live in a world where there are Octobers (and Novembers)!